


The Mercy of the Fallen

by delgaserasca



Category: Atlantis (UK TV)
Genre: Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Minor Character Death, icarus/Pythagoras - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S2. Pasiphae's rage follows the Argonauts out to sea, prompting Pythagoras to undertake an unexpected journey.</p><p>Slightly canon-divergent: assumes Icarus did not leave Atlantis with Pythagoras, but remained behind with his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mercy of the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aestivali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestivali/gifts).



> Merry Christmas aestivali! I was delighted by your prompt and I hope you enjoy this fic, strange beast that it is.
> 
>  
> 
> Additional warnings: there is one reference to domestic abuse; it's a recollection of Pythagoras' canon as in 1x08, The Furies, and is as mild in the telling as that episode.  
> There are also repeated mentions of hunting (fishing and then forest animals), animal sacrifice and blood rites. They're not gory or detailed, but they are there.  
> (Many) more notes at the end, including detailed info on the minor character death and the blood rites.

**THE MERCY OF THE FALLEN**

> _There’s the weak, and the strong,  
>  _ _and the beds that have no answers,  
>  _ _and that’s where I may rest my head tonight_
> 
> **_— Dar Williams, The Mercy of the Fallen_ **

 

 

**i. the curse**

Pasiphae’s rage follows them out to the sea.

On the first day, clear skies are swiftly overcome by furious thunder. From the deep still depths of the ocean bubbles a violent tide. The Argo is beleaguered on all sides. Oars are lost to the raging whorls; the men struggle to hold course, their clothes wretched with sea water, heads down against the rain. Somewhere a beam cracks open; buntlines snap and whip viciously amongst the crew. Jason and Hercules try to wrangle the sails back into place, but to no avail. By nightfall, the Argo is floating off course, the stars marked in inverted shapes. Pythagoras spends the night trying to make sense of the sky.

In the morning, the supplies are rotten. Bread is stale, wine is sour; the fish and sweetmeats are spoiled. When the crew cast nets over the sides of the ship, they draw up a fresh catch, but as soon as the fish are split open, the meat spoils. Hercules cuts open body after body, each one more rancid than the last, until, in a fit of pique he casts them, guts and all, back into the blue.

On the third day, the men begin to ail.

  


Five days into their journey, the Argo is adrift. One by one, the crew succumbs to the mysterious sickness - first marked by sores, then by infection, and then by fever. Those that are still well hunger for food, and thirst for clean water; the rest curse Jason for bringing women onto the ship. “Old superstitions hold fast here,” says Pythagoras. “The sea is its own domain.”

“Maybe they’re right,” Hercules answers. “This has been a fool’s errand from the first.”

“What else would you have us do?” Jason asks.

“We should go home,” says Hercules. “It was a fine plan, but now we have no crew and no food. We should turn the ship and return to Atlantis.”

“To what?” Jason demands. “To Pasiphae’s rule? She will never leave us in peace. She will hunt us for the rest of our days. No,” he shakes his head, adamant, “we must go on. Now more than ever we must find and destroy the seat of her power.”

Pythagoras looks out to the horizon; there is nothing but ocean on all sides. “This sickness is unnatural. It’s the work of a dark and powerful magic.” He pauses, considering what this must mean - wonders mournfully what has befallen Atlantis in their wake. Turning back, he looks to Ariadne who straightens, already sure of the truth. “This is Pasiphae’s doing.”

The Queen nods her agreement. “We must go on. We are no safer in Atlantis than we are where we stand.” She looks to the Oracle. “Is there some way to guard ourselves from her influence? How can her power reach so far?”

Seated at the bow, the Oracle watches over the sick and the well. She casts her sight out past the sails, far to the western horizon. “Pasiphae is touched by the gods. Wheresoever they might gaze, so reaches her power.”

“Then there is nowhere to hide,” says Hercules, “and no wine to soothe our pains.”

“There must be some succour,” Ariadne insists. “Pasiphae is not a god; she is mortal. Flesh and bone and blood, like you or me. There has to be some way of deflecting her power.”

“There may well be,” the Oracle confirms, “but it will not be easy. And if Pasiphae learns of your attempts, you will be no better off than in her thrall, or in the depths of Poseidon’s domain.”

Jason exchanges a wary glance with Hercules. “What is it?”

“Where tread we that the gods of sand and sky and sea cannot cast their sight?” She looks about; none can guess. “Only Hades and his bride have power in the Underworld. If you wish to find some remedy, it will be in the land of the dead.”

“This is nonsense,” Hercules spits, “only the dead may wander Hades.”

“No,” says Pythagoras, “I don’t think that’s true. There are stories of men who have entered the Underworld, hearts still beating in their chests.” He looks to the Oracle. She nods.

“The ferryman has a fare,” she says. “He will carry whomsoever can pay it. But,” she adds, “I cannot tell you whom to seek out for your answers. I am blessed by the same divine power that fuels Pasiphae: in service to Poseidon, I can only see where the living tread. There are no certainties. If you undertake this journey, you will be blind. You will not know what you seek until you set your eyes upon it.”

“We have to try,” Jason says. “We have no choice.”

And so a course is set.

  


**ii. the course**

With Pythagoras’ help, they plot a course to the east. By his reckoning, they are only a few days off their northerly route to Colchis; a journey east will bring them to land more swiftly where the sick can be tended to, and - Jason hopes - to find food. The remaining crew are weary, and low on reserves of faith. Some of the older, practiced sailors refuse to cross paths with Ariadne, and all are wary of the Oracle, citing her half-child, half-beast out of fear. Jason is careful to sequester the women out of harm’s way.

Whilst Hercules and Jason take up the oars, Pythagoras sits with Ariadne, the two of them working at the torn sails and nets, trying to make up the damage. They share stale bread between them, and sip at the soured wine for want of anything better. Their stomachs are unsettled. Pythagoras knows hunger - has run from it since he was a boy, trying to fend for his mother and his brother, and later, with Hercules, trying to put money towards stores and not wine or gambling. But Ariadne is a queen, never in want. Even when ousted from Atlantis, she had been well-fed in the forest, a graceful hunter, having accompanied her father as a child, and no doubt blessed by Artemis in the work. No hunt will satisfy them now: Ariadne grows wan, even under the sun.

After three nights, the Oracle spots a shadow on the horizon; by the time the sun has risen, it is plain to see: land, and plenty of it. Under the midday sun they drop anchor and make for the shore.

The fruits of the land are sweet and ripe; the Oracle gasps in delight, and at her behest, Jason sends two of the men to hunt some beast to offer up in thanks to Poseidon. Whilst the infirm are ferried slowly to the shore, the remaining crew are sent off to accrue shelter, timber for the ship, and aid. “Walk until you meet an inhabitant of this land,” advised the Oracle, “and let them lead you to their king.”

“Tell him we ask for safe harbour,” adds Jason, “and we intend to be gone once our business is concluded. Be humble, but be cautious.”

The Oracle agrees: “Do not share our task with any stranger. Say only that we tread where the gods will us. Speak not of Atlantis, nor of Pasiphae or our good queen.”

The men disperse from the beach. As they disappear, one by one, Pythagoras wonders if they will ever return.

  


Save dying, traversing the road to the Underworld is a task of half-measures and approximations. “Follow the world west,” the Oracle advises, “to the end of the day, and where the sun sets, there you will find a river whose depths are as dark as a starless night sky.

“On the banks of the Styx make your offerings to Poseidon as your protector, for you are of the living, and to Hades and Persephone, as they are of the dead. Mark the passage between light and dark. Spill blood on the earth, and cast fire into the sky. Mark your obeisance into the earth. When you are ready, the ferryman will come. No sooner: he comes when needed, and not before.

“Charon will have a fare. If you cannot pay, he will not carry you. This is the contract. You cannot forfeit.

“When you cross to that far shore, venture west to the dead, and east back to the living. Eat nothing offered; drink nothing offered; for you are of the living, and your bodies owe no debt to the dead.

“Take only what you can carry; offer none any promise. Be honest, be forthright, be humble. Offer no insult; give thanks in abundance. When you find what you seek, you may leave the way you came, or not at all.

“The is the way of the Underworld, and this is the contract. You cannot forfeit.”

  


Pythagoras is the first to recognise the complication as it arises, but it is Ariadne who gives it voice. Jason is securing his sword, readying himself for the journey, but—

“Jason, you cannot go.”

“We won’t be long,” he assures, “a day there, a day back. Hercules will remain—”

“Like Hades I will,” Hercules interjects. “I’m not letting you go alone. You’re liable to get yourself properly dead!”

“Then Pythagoras—”

“It can’t be me,” says Pythagoras. His chest is tight with dismay; his hands are sweating. “I can’t keep the crew at bay - there’s too many of them. They’re good men, but they have their own customs, and they feel— they lay this misfortune at your feet.” He shakes his head in remorse. “I’m sorry, my friend. I cannot protect the Queen, though I wish that I could. Your men are ready to mutiny.”

Jason halts, lays eyes on Ariadne, then Hercules, then Pythagoras, then the Oracle, aware of their consensus, and of their precarious position. Pythagoras wills him to understand, to trust in the bonds of faith between them, and the roads they have already traversed. Hercules glances his way; he, too, sees the folly in letting Jason lead the journey.

“It doesn’t need more than one man,” he says, as gently as Hercules is ever able. “Two, if only to provide company. Pythagoras can come with me. We can retrieve what is needed, be back before you know it. A day there, and a day back, isn’t that what you said?”

Jason’s shoulders fall, but his hand remains on the pommel of his sword. Ariadne moves close to him; covers his hand with her own. “I cannot convene with any king here, and you have sent your men to ask for safe harbour. Whoever it is will want to see you. You must speak for us - for your men.” She looks back at Hercules and Pythagoras with a small smile. “You should trust your friends. They have served you well, and they will again.”

At last, he nods; Pythagoras feels the bands around his chest loosen. “You’re right. Of course, you are all right. I will stay, try to get the crew back on its feet.” He nods to Pythagoras, extends his arm to him, and then to Hercules. “Go swiftly, my friends, but carefully. We’ll be here when you return.”

“We’ll be back in no time,” Hercules proclaims, grasping his arm in return. “You won’t even notice we’ve gone.”

  


They pack with haste: Hercules gathers fruit, takes the time to sharpen his sword. Pythagoras claims one from the sick; is careful to bind it to his waist where he won’t trip over it, or cause injury to himself. He gathers water from a nearby stream; the clear water wends north into the copse, no doubt into any town or city ahead. There is no guarantee of water when he and Hercules head west, so he fills a number of skins. They will weigh him down, but it’s worth the trouble.

It’s by the water that Ariadne finds him, kneeling in the soft bank of the stream and fumbling with the skins as their straps repeatedly slide off his shoulder and into the crook of his arm. She lifts them from his elbow, sliding them off his arm as he waits, and setting them to one side with a smile at his antics. “This way is easier, I think.” She bends to help; takes one of the empty skins and drags it through the stream.

Pythagoras huffs in wry agreement. “Trying to do too much at once.”

“You can afford to be patient in this,” Ariadne says.

“Can I?” Pythagoras wonders. “I am worried about our journey. What if we can’t find the Styx? What if Charon refuses to let us pass? What happens here if the king denies you safe harbour?” Shoulders low, he binds another skin closed. In his mind he can picture dark hair, soft curls; large gentle hands clasping his. “I am worried for those we have left in Atlantis. What life must be under Pasiphae— what they must endure every moment we tarry.”

He startles at Ariadne’s touch; her hand is a brand on his arm. “Do not think me callous, Pythagoras. Those are my people, and Atlantis has been my home since the day I took my first breath. It was my mother’s home, and is my father’s resting place.” She peers at him earnestly. “Your fears are mine, too, but if we are to be successful, we must stick to our intentions.”

The Queen sits back on her haunches, smiling at her hands. “You have been welcome company to me in these times of strife, Pythagoras. I would hate to see you come to harm.” She reaches to a parcel at her side that he hadn’t seen her bring. Holding the bundle in her lap, Ariadne untied the leather cord that bound it, pulling aside the canvas aside to reveal three daggers made in burnished steel, the longest the length of his forearm, the shortest no greater than his palm. “It would please me greatly if you were to take these with you.”

“Your highness, I can’t accept such a gift,” Pythagoras demures; “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

“Cut bark from the trees,” she urges, “and kindling for a fire. Run the blade through a pyre and use it to cauterise your wounds. You and Hercules will need to hunt - a boar or a ram, something of size to appease the gods. Please,” she pushes the canvas into his hands, and cups his face, “for my comfort. Take these with you so that you remember you have friends here that hold you dear, and wait eagerly for your return.”

Pythagoras accepts the gift with humility, touched by Ariadne’s kind heart. “Thank you, your highness. I promise to return them to you on my return.”

“Be sure to return,” she says. “That is the only thing I ask.”

  


They embark as the light begins to wane. The two men sent to find shelter are ready to take Jason, Ariadne, the Oracle and the ailing to the place they have found, set back into the forest, but near to the water Pythagoras found. There has been no word from the two sent in search of the township.

“Three days,” Hercules promises Jason. “We will be back in three days, you mark my words.”

“If not, then you must go ahead without us,” Pythagoras adds.

“Not that you’ll need to,” says Hercules.

“But if you do,” Pythagoras continues pointedly, “then go without grief. If we miss you, we’ll find some way to meet you in Colchis.”

Jason places a hand on his shoulder. “My friend, I am not leaving without you. Take your three days. I will be here - _we_ will be here - when you return.” They share a smile. With a nod at Ariadne, and one last glance at the Oracle, Pythagoras turns to walk with Hercules. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they set off west towards to setting sun and to whatever lies beyond its reach.

  


It takes some time before Pythagoras makes the realisation. It has been an hour, maybe closing in on two, but night has yet to fall. Hercules, who has found a makeshift staff from somewhere, is keeping a steady pace, and grousing about the lack of meat - the need to find some rabbits for dinner, perhaps, which reminds him that he lacks a bow, which in turn reminds him of the need to hunt a ram or a boar and sends him off on another tangent of complaint - and Pythagoras notes that his shadow is no shorter, nor the light any less keen.

He doesn’t mention this to Hercules, for fear of setting off his discomfort. He will realise himself, given enough time.

They walk on.

  


Dinner, surprisingly, is a rabbit - surprising in that Pythagoras is familiar with his friend’s hunting skills and is not one to place a great deal of faith in them - but the meat cooks well, and is tender. They eat well, the first meat they’ve had in days, and take careful handfuls of the berries Ariadne had collected for them back at the far shore. Pythagoras passes over a skin without prompting. “Rather it was wine,” Hercules grumbles, but it’s a familiar retort, and it brings Pythagoras a sort of comfort.

“You always rather it was wine,” he mutters, careful to hide a smile.

“That's because wine is always better.” Hercules beats at his chest twice. “Good for the constitution.”

“Bad for the brain,” Pythagoras replies, taking a swig of water from his own skin. "Bad for our larder." The water is ice cold, as it was in the stream. It should have warmed under the sun. He wonders where they must be that the laws of the world have ceased to apply.

“Sun’s not setting,” Hercules says after a while. It’s casually offered, but Pythagoras knows Hercules is perturbed. How could he not be? It should be late evening by now. What if they never come to the end of dusk? What if today stretches on and on until they have walked to the edge of the world without Helios’ chariot coming into its dark stable?

“It will. That’s the way of the world,” says Pythagoras, aiming for confidence - missing, if Hercules’ face is anything to go by. “We shouldn’t waste the light. It will be easier if we hunt now than in the dark.”

Hercules fusses, but gets to his feet, casting about for his sword. He had used a slingshot to fell the rabbits they’d eaten for supper; it would take more to kill a boar. Were there boars?

“No,” says Hercules, “but I’ve seen hoof prints - heavy, by the look of it. Sheep, probably, somewhere to the north. Not too far, but we’ll need to pass away from the shoreline.” He is contemplating the staff and his sword, trying to determine if they can both be of use. Pythagoras proffers the shortest blade Ariadne had gifted him, and the cord from the bundle.

“Perhaps we can fashion a spear.”

“Yes - yes!” Hercules takes both, and sets to binding the two firmly together. When he’s done, he tests the weight and the binding, jabbing forward, and passing the spear from side to side. “Very nice.” There’s a careful precision to Hercules’ hands at times that strikes Pythagoras as quietly lovely. At some point in his life, he likely was the champion he claimed he was - a swordsman to match Jason, even. Pythagoras watches him appraise his work with satisfaction, and feels a surge of fondness well in his breast. He is lucky to have such a friend, drunken speculator though he is. In times of need, there is no braver man.

  


It takes no time at all for Hercules to track what he thinks will be a sizeable beast, enough to supplicate an Olympus full of gods, he says. Pythagoras hangs back, wary of getting in the way, and with no skills to add to the exercise. He’s careful to keep Hercules in sight, whilst also being aware of the path back to the shore.

There is a sharp whistle of sound to the fore and then a low thud, and a dry bleat of protest: Hercules has struck. “A-ha!” he crows, arms raised in victory. He turns to look at Pythagoras. “That’s how it’s done!” He pulls the spear from the ram’s side; it is a monstrous size, more cattle than sheep if Pythagoras were to guess.

Hercules presses two fingers into the ram’s blood and smears them on his forehead before lifting the same hand to the sky in supplication. “My thanks to you, mighty Artemis.” He notices Pythagoras, still twenty paces away. “Well, come on! I can’t carry this myself.” He castigates Pythagoras for his weak arms as they struggle to carry the beast, but he is happy in the chastising, and a little smug.

When they reach the shore, the sun is low to the horizon. From being in the forest to stepping out onto the beach, the sun has crossed the sky, evening has passed, and they are on the cusp of night. A chill passes through Pythagoras, and he looks back at Hercules whose eyes are also on the sky. When he notices, he hoists the ram again. “Best be on, then.”

They walk on.

  


And then, lo: the River Styx.

Pythagoras nearly stumbles into its murky waters. They are still carrying the ram, but the sea has broken into tributaries, and at first he thinks he has wandered into the incoming tide. It’s only when he looks up that he sees they have arrived: the world here is all shadow. The last rays of day are but a glow against the distant sky, and the water stretches still and inky before them, a clean sheet of onyx. Hercules jostles the ram into Pythagoras’ back; the collision causes him to look up. He is about to utter some mild insult - Pythagoras hears the intake of breath that says as much - but stops when he sees the water.

“Well. She did say it would be starless.”

They settle the ram by the river bank; the earth underfoot is sodden like soft clay, and Pythagoras feels his knees sinking slightly into the soil. Hercules’ aim had been true, and his strike clean through the skull; the meat of the ram was unharmed, and full with blood. Taking the blade from the makeshift spear, Pythagoras digs a small well in the soil, then waits as Hercules stands lifting the ram by the legs. Pythagoras draws the blade across its neck, startling when warm blood rushes to the fall. The beast has been dead for some time, but the blood is fresh, and it pools in the well.

Whilst Pythagoras begins the rites, Hercules treks to and from the edge of the forest, bringing dry brushwood and kindling. He cuts the thick hide from the ram and lays it in front of Pythagoras, a makeshift altar where Pythagoras sets aside the blade and the berries from their pack. The cuts are precise; the hide is clean and weighty. Hercules sets to finishing the sacrifice, striking flint to create a spark. The flame is slow to take, but when it does it rushes through the kindling and begins to take up the carcass. Hercules takes the herbs the Oracle sent with them and throws them into the fire; they spark and spit. He offers his thanks as before in the forest, this time with the dry leaves in his hands - first to his head, then to the sky, then tossed onto the fire. The ram is for Poseidon; an offering of mighty flesh; the blood is for Hades, a trade in kind.

Slowly and with careful enunciation, Pythagoras intones the prayers. A breeze cuts across the bank from the sea, cool and startling; he shivers, but keeps eyes low, cuts sigils into the earth, pressing his thumbs into the blood and smearing across the ram’s hide. When he finishes, there isn’t a sound to be heard, even from the fire; not a heartbeat but his own ringing in his ears.

He glances over to Hercules who raises his eyebrows - did it work? - to which he gives an abbreviated shrug in reply: I don’t know. Hercules scowls comically, but some sound distracts him. They look out over the great river, silent, waiting. Pythagoras strains to hear anything, any indication that their offering has been received. Yes. There. And again. Again. A slow, steady brush of water lapping. Something is gliding towards them.

Pythagoras rises to his feet, Hercules close behind him as the boat emerges from the dark. Wary, Pythagoras urges his eyes to look into the darkness: the figure on the boat can barely be called a man. As he nears the shore and the sacrificial fire, he becomes clear: a bowed man, wiry but for his arms which are steady and firm with muscle. His robes are rust-coloured, and dirty, sodden with grease of some ilk, and what at first had seemed to be some covering is in fact an unkempt beard, unwashed by the look of it, falling to a pool at his feet. Pythagoras fights not to let his uncertainty show; it’s a fight he is sure he loses.

“Who goes there?” the wraith asks. “Who comes to seek the ferryman?”

“My name is Pythagoras, and my friend,” he gestures back, “is Hercules. We seek passage to the Underworld.” He pauses. “You are Charon?”

“I am the ferryman, and I have a price.” He lifts his head; Pythagoras flinches, and at his shoulder Hercules gasps: the man has no eyes, only unfathomable depths. “Two pieces of silver. This is the contract.”

On hearing the Oracle’s words passed back to him, Pythagoras fumbles at his purse strings. There, in amongst three pebbles he’d found many a year ago at the foot of his mother’s house, and a menagerie of small coins of value only in Atlantis, are two round coins, thin but weighty. They were pressed into his keeping by Jason before they parted ways, the understanding being that any coin was better served in Pythagoras’ hand than Hercules'.

He checks with Hercules now; his friend urges him on with a frown, so he does - he reaches forward, coins between his fingers. Charon lifts an arm and grasps his in return, pulling him suddenly and forcefully on board; he almost trips, but the ferryman’s grip is firm. That will bruise, Pythagoras thinks, then relinquishes the coins to the ferryman’s open palm.

He turns to see Hercules moving to follow him aboard, but Charon stops him with a hand to the chest.

“What—?”

“I have a price.” He looks Hercules in the eye. “Two pieces of silver.”

Hercules looks back at Pythagoras in alarm. “He already paid you!”

“Two pieces of silver for one soul,” Charon specifies. “That is the contract.”

Hercules blusters, attempts to force himself onto the boat again, but Charon swings his oar and forces him back again. Pythagoras struggles to round the sides of the vessel - “Hercules!” - it’s narrow, and Charon has surprising mass when he is not bent over. Prone on the ground, Hercules scrambles to his feet. Charon puts the oar into the water and pushes away from the bank as Hercules reaches forward a third time. “Hercules!” Pythagoras cries again. “Hercules, stop!”

It’s this last cry that makes Hercules pause, stuttering over the water’s edge. He senses instinctively that it would be a mistake to wade through the Styx. Looking up, he catches Pythagoras’ eye. He is frantic.

“It’s all right,” Pythagoras shouts. “I’ll be all right, Hercules. I’ll go, and then I’ll come straight back.”

“I’ll be here,” Hercules yells in return. “Do you hear me? I’ll be here. Pythagoras!”

But Charon is swifter than they knew, and Pythagoras is too far ahead to be heard. He falls back into the bow of the boat, eyes fixed on the shore, Hercules’ grand stature fading further from view, until Pythagoras cannot tell sky from shore from the Styx. Trembling, he casts his eyes up at the ferryman, but Charon does not return the gaze. The great wraith raises his oar; he cuts it through the water with force. They make their way across the Styx in silence.

  


**iii. the cold**

At the far side of the Styx is a dark shore, and above the shore what look like caves but on further inspection are the remains of some long-ruined amphitheatre. The sight turns Pythagoras’ blood cold with apprehension. What a thing it is to see stone crumble. What age it must take to do such a thing.

On reaching the shore, Charon says nothing. His work is done. Pythagoras gathers what he has slung about his person - the water skin, a cloak, and Ariadne’s pouch of daggers. He looks up at the ferryman again and wonders if he should speak, then decides against it in the same breath, crawling haphazardly out of the boat. He looks back again, still trembling and unable to meet Charon’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he says at last, flinging the words in the direction of Charon’s robes, but when he turns he realises that the ferryman has already begun to return into the deep, ever silent and uncaring. Pythagoras is no spectacle for him. He has fulfilled the bonds of his contract.

Casting about for a path, Pythagoras sees that a route has been cut into the grass ahead, where others have gone before him. “Those others were dead, of course…” But nonetheless, it is a route, so Pythagoras gathers his scant belongings to him and does as the Oracle bid: he ventures west towards the dead.

  


After a mile he becomes aware that although there is no-one on the path with him, he is not alone. It is lighter here, though he can see no hint of sun. In the hush new sounds emerge: a rustling noise, a susurrus of movement, of figures moving past him, ahead and behind - but when he turns, he is still alone. He hugs the wares close; he has fastened a belt from the leather cord and Ariadne’s canvas, rolling the daggers tightly into the pouch and string it around his waist by the cord. The water skin he keeps slung across his body, and the thin cloak that is his only cover he folds over the top. It taps against his hip with every step he takes. He grips the strap of the water skin as he moves forward.

More distance passes: he sees trees; grass. Whatever light there is has increased and it is easy now to see his surroundings. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It is a shadowland, this much is true, but otherwise it reminds him of the rich greenlands beyond Atlantis’ walls. He encounters an orchard, trees laden with fat, red apples. He grips the strap of the water skin tighter, remembering the Oracle’s warning: Eat nothing offered; drink nothing offered; for you are of the living, and your bodies owe no debt to the dead.

At the far end of the orchard the bustle around him increases, but still he sees no other person. There is a high wall; the stone is white, but not marble, and unlike the amphitheatre on the western shore of the River Styx, it is firm and regal. There is an opening in the stone - a gate, it turns out, and seeing no alternative, this is where Pythagoras heads.

“You’re lost.”

The voice startles him; it is the first person he has heard since he left Hercules on the shore of the Styx. He spins, looking for the source.

“Over here. Oi, no - here!”

It’s a girl, at least ten years old, though no more than twelve. She is listing against the side of the gate. She is wearing robes that look similar to Ariadne’s, but that are plain, and made from a fabric that seems - to Pythagoras’ untrained eye - coarse and heavy. She looks unsurprised to see him, and utterly bored.

“Hello,” Pythagoras offers stupidly, not sure what to say.

“Yes, hello,” she says primly, straightening from her place with a toss of her long curling hair. “Who are you? You shouldn’t be here.” She squints at him. “This is the land of the dead. You know - for the dead?”

“I’m Pythagoras,” he offers. “I have come in search of—” Of what? That is the problem. He doesn’t know. He tries again. “My friends are running from a terrible - from someone who intends us harm, and I have journeyed here to seek any remedy to our ills.” He casts his eyes about again. “Are you the only one here?”

“No, of course not,” the girl scoffs. “You’ve got your eyes closed.”

Pythagoras blinks. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes,” she says with exaggerated patience, reaching out to him, “you have. You’d better come with me.” She waves her hand in front of him, but Pythagoras remains fixed to his spot.

“Who are you?”

She huffs a sigh, dropping her arm. “My name is Melitodes.” She leans forward a little, as though to offer a confidence. “I’m dead.”

“Right,” says Pythagoras, wary.

The girl - Melitodes - offers her hand again. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, yes, all right,” says Pythagoras, all at once scared that the girl will disappear and he will be alone again. He reaches out to take her hand, and at first touch—

A wild shock courses through his body, as though he is burning and freezing at the same time. His vision loses focus; lights play somewhere in front of him. When the noise and the energy clears, he tosses his head to focus, only to see that he is surrounded by people - men, women, children; the old, the young; people of every age, of varying complexion. He startles, and Melitodes squeezes his hand.

“Told you,” she says with a smug smile. “Eyes were closed.”

  


The practice, Melitodes explains, is that one dies, one is delivered across the water, and one is delivered to the place where they are meant to live out the days of their afterlife. “The ferryman always knows,” she intones solemnly before grinning sharply, shrugging off the affectation. “Most people end up here. If you were sick, then here you are well, but if you lost a limb, or were buried without some part of yourself, then you don’t get to have that limb back. That’s not how it works.” She frowns, wrinkling her nose. “Well, unless you are blessed by some god or other, but how likely is that?”

“Anyway, these are the Asphodel Meadows. This is where most of us end up. If you’re some kind of hero type, you know, the good and what-have-you, then you get to go south,” she waves to left, “to Elysium, but that’s rare as divine fidelity, if you know what I mean. If you keep going that way you’ll pass the Fields of Mourning.” She ducks close again. “For the lovelorn, you know.”

Pythagoras feels overwhelmed, still casting his eyes about the newly-revealed dead. He stops to marvel at a haphazard collection of structures that may or may not be homes - but what need of homes for the dead, he wonders. Melitodes tugs on his hand, pulling him forward again, looping her arm through his. “If you travel far enough west, out of the reach of the light, you’ll wind up you’ll pass through the Fields of Punishment - blasphemers and the like - and eventually the ground gives way, and then you’re in the heart of Tartarus.” She gives Pythagoras a once over, then pats his hand. “Not for you, I think. Best stay clear.”

Without his noticing, they’ve begun to climb a small incline, at the top of which is another fruit tree, and under that, a wooden bench, crafted out of cedar. Melitodes pulls him down to sit beside her, and from their vantage he begins to understand the geography of this strange place.

“Pomegranate?” Pythagoras turns to see Melitodes has grasped fruit from the tree and split it open in her hands. The seeds spill out over her hands like blood; the smell is sweet.

“No, thank you,” Pythagoras declines. “I know that story,” he mutters as an afterthought. The girl grins, kicking her feet a little. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”

Swinging her legs up underneath her, Melitodes twists to face Pythagoras directly. “So. This terrible someone who intends you harm. What’s that about?”

“She is a vengeful queen,” says Pythagoras, picking at the skin around his fingernails. “A false queen, but touched by the gods, so has great power at her disposal. My friends and I— we are trying to reclaim our home and place our rightful sovereigns on the throne. It has been a sad and trying time.”

“Oh bugger,” Melitodes curses, looking up at him with wide eyes; she still has seeds scooped in her fingers. “You’re from Atlantis.” She tosses the remaining flesh away, licking the juice from her hands before leaning back on her wrists. “That changes everything.”

  


She takes him back down the incline, and into the township. The buildings here aren’t quite right - as though someone had heard of a town, but had not seen one so did not know where to put doors or windows, or anything of use. He wonders at their construction even as Melitodes drags him between the looming walls, taking turn after turn. What are the rooms like? Do they have stairs? Are they built on wood, or is it brick? Clay?

They come to a sudden stop in front of a bulky wooden door, reminding Pythagoras of his reason for being there. He has no notion now of which direction is which, nor where he has been brought in relation to where he has been. They are still in the Asphodel Meadows - the white stems are littered about the worn paths, growing seemingly from sand in places. Pushing herself onto her toes, Melitodes extends her arms and raps forcefully on the door.

After a moment with no reply, she does it again. It is the kind of knock that demands attention, but Pythagoras can hear no-one stirring inside. He leans forward. “Where are we?” Even the question sounds uncertain, as though that was not what he meant to ask.

“You’ll see,” Melitodes replies, straining up again when, without warning, the door swings open. “It’s about time!” she cries. “I’ve been waiting.”

A familiar face peers out of the dark, frowning first at the girl, and then clearing in shock on sight of Pythagoras. Pythagoras draws in a slow breath, chest tight with understanding. “By the gods,” he murmurs sadly. “Daedalus. What happened?”

The door opens wider, his old friend stepping back from the entrance. “You’d better come in.”

  


The house. Well. The house looks much the same as Daedalus’ own back in Atlantis. Pythagoras feels overcome with weariness, taking a seat at Daedalus’ table, the top covered in bits and pieces of whatever contraption was occupying his friend’s attention now. It was all so familiar to him, but he knew it was a replica, a falsehood. If Daedalus was here, in Hades, then he had died, and Pythagoras would never again see his dear friend.

Daedalus and Melitodes are in furious conversation by the hearth - which is next to to door for some reason. The ceiling slopes away into the dark, but at some point it must lift up; Pythagoras can see shadows created by the light from a window at some unfathomable height. He hears his name and turns to Daedalus again.

“I’m not dead,” he says, cutting through Daedalus and Melitodes’ disagreement. “Jason is travelling to Colchis to find a golden fleece.” He looks away, drawing circles on the table with his finger. He finds himself suddenly unable to meet Daedalus’ piercing stare. “It is said to be the source of Pasiphae’s power. He - we - intend to destroy it.”

“A brave plan,” says Daedalus, sliding onto the bench across from him. “So what brings you here?”

“The Oracle - her successor, the girl child - she believes there is some totem, or some knowledge here in the Underworld that can shield us from Pasiphae’s power.” He shakes his head, remembering the storm, the rotted fish. “We have been plagued since we set sail. We need some defence.” He looks up. “Something godly.”

Daedalus rubs a hand across his face. “She is touched by the gods. She has overcome death to rule Atlantis again.”

“But she is flesh and blood and bone,” Pythagoras argues, remembering Ariadne’s insistence. “She isn’t a god. There must be something.”

“And you thought it would be here?”

Pythagoras shrugs; it had made sense when the Oracle had said it. “Pasiphae’s power is a blessing from the gods of the living world. If there’s anything, it has to be here where only Hades and Persephone hold domain.” Daedalus nods, not in agreement, but understanding the line of thought. He rubs his face again. He seems aged, even though he is without sickness or affliction. “What happened, old friend? What brought you here?”

Daedalus sniffs, looking up, as though clearing his head of fog. “Pasiphae asked for the names of any man, woman or child known to support Ariadne and Jason. We were rounded into the streets and led to the citadel.” He looks away, sniffing again, and rubbing his nose disaffectedly. “She remembered that her general had held me prisoner for the same crime before. She made an example of me.”

White noise flashes through Pythagoras’ mind. He feels hot in the face and short of breath. He startles when he feels a hand over his; Melitodes pulls at his fingers, her eyes wide in concern, prodding him to unclench his fists. He looks at her, unseeing, but relaxes his hands a little. His eyes begin to burn with tears.

“What about— I mean.” He looks to Daedalus again. “Icarus?”

“Oh no,” says Daedalus, reaching forward to clasp Pythagoras’ hand. “No, no, don’t fret. That silly boy - he wasn’t gathered with the rest of us. Sometimes I think people forget he’s my son.” He gives a wry laugh. “My… son. My beautiful boy. No, he is alive and well. Well, alive, at least. I can’t vouch for more than that.”

Dropping his head to the table, Pythagoras heaves a sigh of relief. There is time, still, to do some good. He sits up, resolve renewed.

“Where can I go?” he asks. “To whom can I speak? Who would know what I need to know?”

“Well,” Melitodes drawls, biting her lip. She shares a worried glance with Daedalus. “Typically travellers come here to find someone specific, a seer - Tiresias or some Delphian Oracle - but those people, they have intent. You only have, what, a guess? It’s not enough. It’s too vague.”

“A supplication might work,” Daedalus offers.

“What kind of supplication - he doesn’t have anything!” Melitodes spits, before looking away, ashamed. “You can trade in skill,” she says. “An offer for return in kind. Your words in exchange for the council’s.”

“The council?”

Melitodes looks away again.

“She means the court,” Daedalus explains gently. “A supplication directly to Hades and his Iron Queen.”

“But it has to be absolute,” Melitodes warns. “You must give up something to them in all humility. They are not easily pleased.”

Pythagoras feels his stomach tighten. “I have nothing. A skin of water from the world above, three daggers of burnished steel from my good queen, and my wool cloak. And that’s got holes. That’s all I brought with me.” He shakes his head slowly. “We made our supplication on the river bank.”

“That’s just to get you through the door unharmed,” says Daedalus. “But what you need is divine knowledge. A story for a story. Your words for theirs. It’s the only way.”

  


In Hades, Pythagoras no longer feels the burden of time. Has it been hours, days even? He does not hunger. He does not thirst. It seems like months since he first crossed the river, but Melitodes tells him that Helios’ chariot has yet to breach the sky again. It’s still night, somewhere.

He parts ways with Daedalus, unwilling to further disturb his peace. He feels responsible - they should have taken Daedalus and Icarus with them, they should have left protection, they should have sent word of their destination - but Daedalus is of the mind that what is done is done. They embrace roughly when Pythagoras stands to leave.

“You must do everything within your power to stop her,” he whispers fiercely. “For Atlantis. For my sweet, stupid boy. I’m an old man, death is nothing to me. But there are so many others, so rich with life.” He grasps Pythagoras’ face in his hands. “Promise me.”

“On my blood,” says Pythagoras, hand on his heart, “I swear to you, Daedalus, I will do everything I can.”

  


Somewhere between the warren of buildings and the open fields of Asphodel Meadows, Pythagoras loses sight of Melitodes. One minute his hand is in hers; the next it is not, and he is back facing the incline topped by the bench and the tree. He spins, searching for her, but to no avail.

Remembering what Melitodes told him of the Underworld, he tries to think where the court could sit - but, no. Who is he to put himself before the God of Death and his bride? He has no stories to offer. Pythagoras knows that he is no actor, no chorus. He is no hero; he is only a side player, someone who bears the consequences of others’ actions. Twice he has killed in defence of others: once for his mother and his brother, and then again, with more guile, when he went with Hercules to execute Pasiphae. It had seemed inconsequential at the time, the absence of burial rites. What need had she? What right? But now it seems it could have saved them, or given them some time. Had she to climb out from Hades to face her resurrection, she may not have made the attempt. They could have been at peace.

And now Pythagoras is in the land of the dead, with no stories to tell, and no kindnesses to offer, whilst Icarus is in Atlantis, facing unknown terrors at Pasiphae’s hands, and Jason and Ariadne are in some unknown land, unsure of their standing and reliant on Pythagoras’ return. Even Hercules, on the east bank of the River Styx, is waiting.

Overwhelmed, Pythagoras sinks to the ground, head in his hands. What to do, what to do?

“Pythagoras? Is that you? By the gods, it is— Pythagoras?”

He knows that voice; he knows it well.

“Medusa?”

  
  


**iv. the crime**

Sometimes death is a gift. Sometimes it is an offering. Sometimes it is the payment of a debt.

Medusa’s crime against the Oracle freed her of the Gorgon’s curse, but was so unholy an act as to blacken her soul. When she offered herself back up to the loneliness of her curse - offered herself up as a weapon to Jason - she put right the scales. One death for another; her life offered up in supplication for the Oracle’s.

“That is how I earned my forgiveness and blessing at the hands of the goddess.” Crouched by Pythagoras’ feet, his hands in hers, she gives a small smile. “The gods ask much of us for our sins and our prayers, but what we give, we must give freely, and without expectation of return. It must be a gift of your entire heart.”

“This is why you have your head,” Pythagoras remarks, trying to understand, but overcome with feeling.

“And peace,” says Medusa. “I have peace now.”

Yes, Pythagoras thinks, I can see that.

  


When Pythagoras feels able, Medusa helps him to his feet, and they walk arm-in-arm through the Asphodel Meadows. Over the incline, past Melitodes’ bench, are actual fields, full to brim with wildflowers. The sky here is still grey; the light is still not the sun, but it is lighter - kinder, even - than the far corners of the realm. There is a haunting beauty to it.

Pythagoras tells Medusa of the trials Jason has faced since her sacrifice: how close they came, and how often, to peace in Atlantis. He tells her about Hercules, his love for Medusa, and his mourning of her; how he put aside his anger over her death to aid Jason, and return to his side as his friend and companion. He tells her about Ariadne’s struggle, her exile from the city, and her love for and faith in Jason. He speaks of Aeson and Pasiphae’s ruined love; of Jason’s blackened heart; of Medea’s two-fold nature, and her split heart. He speaks of Daedalus and his fire powder, and his waxen wings. He speaks of his fear; of Colchis, of Pasiphae’s curse, and his journey here to the Underworld.

“I feel I've been walking for days and days without rest,” he says, “but I know this can't be so. Melitodes says that the sun has yet to rise on the world. But I fear that I've been here an entire eternity, and all is lost to us.”

“I think there is time yet,” says Medusa. “There is hope yet. The night has not passed. Pasiphae’s curse was on the ship, not on its crew. Jason and the Queen are safe for now. There is time,” she insists.

She reaches up into the boughs of a tree that they are passing and plucks an apple. It is bright and red, and ripe; when Medusa takes hold of both sides and splits it in two, Pythagoras can smell its sweetness. She offers him half. “It’s good. The fruit here is so succulent. Even the apples!”

“Thank you; no,” Pythagoras answers, distracted by thoughts of home.

Medusa leans forward to catch his eye. “Why did you come here, Pythagoras?”

“I told you,” he says. “I came in search of a defence against Pasiphae’s influence.”

“No, I know, I mean—” she pauses to take another bite of the apple. “Why you? Why not Jason or Hercules? Why not the Queen?”

Pythagoras ponders this briefly. “Hercules was going to come. He's waiting for me even now on the banks of the Styx. Jason couldn’t part from his crew; they're distrustful of him, and need captaining. It will take his leadership to bring them to heel if we want to make it to Colchis in one piece. And we couldn't be sure of our success, or what troubles might befall us, so there was no question of the Queen making the journey.”

“I think,” Medusa says, “I think the Fates chose you. They chose you because you are brave, and kind, and determined. They put you on the ferryman’s boat because they know you have a bright and sharp mind, and a full heart, and as much to lose as anyone else has to gain if Atlantis remains in Pasiphae’s control.” She slides her arm out from beneath Pythagoras’ so that she can face him head on. “It had to be you, Pythagoras. Yes, Jason is brave. Yes, Hercules is strong. Yes, the Queen is cunning. But you, Pythagoras?” She smiles, full and happy. “You are all these things and more.”

They have circled to the far side of the Meadows, where the light fades and the path winds on to the Fields of Punishment.

“You will find what you have come to seek, Pythagoras,” says Medusa, cupping Pythagoras’ face with one hand. She rubs her thumb beneath his eye as a mother would her child. “I have faith in you, in your strength of will, and good character. I always treasured your friendship.” She gives a sad smile. “You helped me find peace. You made it possible.”

Pythagoras gave a wry grin in reply, lifting his hand to meet hers. “By releasing you back to your curse. What a thing.”

“Yes,” says Medusa, “to free me of my torment. You knew what needed to be done. You knew what a kindness it would be. I will never forget what you did for me.”

She takes a step back. “Farewell, my friend. When you see Hercules, tell him that I loved him, and that I am whole now, and light of care, and that he must be too, and must love again, and not wither now that I am gone. All is well with me. Tell him to put aside his grief, for his sadness sorrows me, and I wish him only the best of life.”

Then she too is gone, leaving only the open path towards the Fields of Punishment.

  


It soon becomes apparent to Pythagoras that as in any city or kingdom, there are certain zones of neutrality, where people of different districts and townships pass one another without recrimination. Furthermore, there is not one line to mark the Asphodel Meadows from each of its neighbouring lands. Instead, far to the south the light becomes gradually brighter, until finally one can encroach upon Elysium which itself is walled, but whose gates are ever open. The same is true to the west: the light fades and fades the closer one treads to the Fields of Punishment. But before that are those outside the gods’ wrath who nonetheless were less than charitable in life.

The buildings here resemble those in the township in that they are not quite houses, but not at all anything else. Those settled here are made of clay and thatch, and often have parts of the walls cut out. The people who reside here watch as he wanders down their rows, their gazes potent with distaste. Those that pass him in the street avoid his line of sight or sneer at him in passing. Pythagoras is careful; he keeps his hands wound in the straps of his water skin.

The air here carries a greater chill, and Pythagoras pulls his cloak clear from his side in order to put it about his shoulders. The further down the path he travels, the more it widens into a road, and the fewer people he sees. In the distance he can see wrought iron gates, towering behemoths that mark the entry to the Fields of Punishment. He can’t judge the distance, but if he strains, he can hear the wrangled cries of the tortured from where he stands. It is a sad and desolate place, and there is nothing for him there. He turns to make his way back and is surprised to see a figure in the road.

The man is tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. He meets Pythagoras in height, but everything about him is square: his jaw, his hands, his stature. There is something familiar about him - his manner or his shape, Pythagoras cannot tell. He keeps watch as Pythagoras makes his slow, uncertain way back to the township, trying to avoid the man’s path or incurring his wrath. He moves to one side as he nears the man, but instead of letting him pass, the man steps close.

At this proximity, the man is even taller than Pythagoras realised; he has to lean down to whisper in Pythagoras’ ear. His voice is a menacing growl that so surprises Pythagoras that he is forced to look up and meet his eye.

“You belong here.”

  


There are some sins, Pythagoras believes, that a body can never be free of. Regicide is one; patricide another. Two wide dark marks crossed double on his soul in indelible ink, never to be cleaned from his person. Pythagoras swallows thickly, his muscles tight with inaction.

“Hello, Father.”

“You are no son of mine,” he sneers. “What son would kill his father? A cursed act. No gods will bless you, whatever your recompense. There is no higher crime than this: to take the blood of your blood. There is no forgiveness for you, Pythagoras of Samos. Put down my good name. I disown you of it.”

Pythagoras is a man now, not the child who so often witnessed his father strike out at his mother in anger, but stood before him now, he can remember only the fear and distress that bound him to his abhorrent, fateful act. He cowers beneath his father’s towering frame, unwilling to unbend for fear of displeasing him. But the damage is long done, and Mnesarchus has had years to curdle his anger.

Readying his body for a blow, Pythagoras recalls his mother’s sweet face and gentle voice. He recalls the honeyed mead she would serve in the winter nights, and the bright burst of joy that accompanied her sweetmeats. She, too, must be here in this land, perhaps as close to Elysium as his father is far from it. He thinks of Arcas, of the rage he carried: of his love for Mnesarchus and his anger at his loss. He thinks of how deep his brother’s well of hatred had run in order to be able to call upon the Furies as he had, with nothing more than a prayer and a hope. Arcas had relented, his love for Pythagoras overcoming his hatred for his father’s murderer. But Pythagoras kept the Furies’ torment locked in his breast.

These are the memories that give Pythagoras the courage to unfurl. He takes a small step back out of his father’s cold dismissal, and straightens to his full height. There is not much likeness between them, this had always been true; Pythagoras had taken for his mother, slight in build, and yellow-haired. But in their hearts, Pythagoras thinks, he and Mnesarchus are well-matched. Once Mnesarchus committed himself to action, no force could remove him from his path, and so to has it been with Pythagoras. Mnesarchus was a trader, and a shrewd negotiator - how often has Pythagoras been called upon to protect Hercules from the repercussions of his greater demons? And Mnesarchus was easily swayed by his feelings; this was what fuelled his anger and his joy alike; his moods were as inconstant as the tides. Pythagoras, too, worked first from his heart. All the science in the world could not sway his acceptance of the divine and his love for those he held closest to him.

And so, he opens his arms.

“You're right to be angry, Father. My sin is the greatest of sins; my wrong the greatest of wrongs. What kind of man am I that I spilled your blood? Yours! Blood of my own!” His eyes burn with tears. “You will remain here until the end of time because your violence against mother was an unclean thing in our house. A brutal, awful crime, one for which you now are punished. But—” he adds, Mnesarchus’ face drawing dark and close, “one day I will join you here, for such was my own violence: another stain upon our house, and our good name.” He shakes his head sadly, dropping his arms. “Would that I had hated you; at least then I would have had an excuse. But I loved you, despite the wretched violence of you, and I have grieved my actions every day since. You are my Father, and I love you, and I killed you. The crime is mine: so, too, will be the punishment.”

Pythagoras weeps openly as Mnesarchus considers his words. The anger in his brow has faded, but the discontent remains. He takes a step back. That’s when Pythagoras notices they have attracted a crowd. To the back of the gathering he can see Daedalus and Medusa, their gazes softer than he deserves. Movement in the corner of his eye makes him turn to Mnesarchus again: his father is shaking his head. When he speaks, he does so slowly. “What’s yours is yours, Pythagoras of Samos. You are no son of mine.”

“What is going on now?” The shrill call prompts the crowd to begin its dispersal. “Pythagoras, is that you?” When he looks up, Daedalus and Medusa are nowhere to be seen, but Melitodes is swift approaching. He turns to look after Mnesarchus once more but he too has gone. Only Pythagoras and this odd maid of the dead remain. He wipes his hand across his cheeks, feeling bruised and raw.

As she nears, Pythagoras notes that she is laden with long-stemmed, pale grey blossoms - an entire armful of asphodels, in the same way Demeter might carry a sheaf of corn. She comes to a stop by his side, casting an eye after Mnesarchus. making a hum of understanding, she looks up to catch Pythagoras’ gaze. “Blood of your blood.” She lifts and resettles her floral bundle. “Can’t choose your family, am I right?”

  


By some unspoken consensus, Melitodes and Pythagoras begin a slow, quiet walk east, back towards the River Styx. When they have escaped the last vestiges of the Fields of Punishment, Melitodes begins to cast glances his way, uncharacteristically timid. After the third such enquiry, Pythagoras lets out a soft sigh.

“You may ask whatsoever will sate your curiosity,” he says, passing a glance back with a half-hearted smile.

Melitodes nods sharply, as though this is as much as she had suspected. “What will you do now?”

Pythagoras sighs again, pondering the same question. “I'll return to the east bank of the river, and with Hercules make the trek follow the path back to Jason and Ariadne. I'll share with them what I know, and join them as we make another attempt for Colchis.” He looks to Melitodes. “If nothing else, this journey has reminded me that we took to the sea with noble intent, and it's our duty to those we left behind to return victorious, or die in the attempt.”

“And what of your vengeful queen? The arbiter of what ails you?”

“Her niece, the sorceress Medea, hails from Colchis, and carries some unbridled affection for Jason,” says Pythagoras. “Perhaps she will aid us.”

Melitodes frowns. “A niece? More blood?”

Pythagoras shrugs. “Pasiphae is Jason’s mother; there cannot be more blood, I think. We’re afloat in it.”

A ponderous look crosses Melitodes’ face. “Tell me again, what claim has the usurper to the throne? Why an interest in Atlantis at all?”

So Pythagoras begins at the beginning: speaks first of Aeson, one-time king of Atlantis, and his ill-met marriage to Pasiphae, she who hailed from Colchis, in the east; of how she is touched by the gods, and ruled by her lust for power. He tells of how the queen sickened her husband, and with help from King Minos cast him out from Atlantis; how Aeson escaped with their son, the infant Jason, freeing him to grow old far from his mother’s influence. He speaks of Therus and Ariadne, Minos’ children from a previous marriage; of how Pasiphae sought to inherit the crown by persuading Minos to disinherit his son. He recalls Pasiphae’s treachery: how she poisoned Minos for many months, cast his daughter out under false accusations, and sat on the throne of Atlantis, even as she plotted to kill her husband, the king.

He returns, then, to speak of Jason’s arrival; of nobility and good character; his loyalty to his friends, and his love for Ariadne. He speaks of Jason’s kindness - his affection for Medusa, and his good will to Pythagoras and Hercules both. He recounts their adventures, from the fighting pits to bull-leaping, from his defence of Hercules’ ill-thought capers to protection of Pythagoras from the Furies. He speaks a long while of Hercules’ love of Medusa, of the keenness of his wooing, and the forthright tenderness she had of him in return; the ruin of it by Pandora’s box, and the Gorgon’s curse - how Medusa had been driven mad by her isolation, and driven to horrific lengths to be cured of her affliction, only to be tormented by the knowledge of her sin. Of her noble sacrifice to aid Jason in his cause against Pasiphae.

He speaks of Hercules’ madness, and Jason’s blackened heart; of Ariadne’s bravery and Medea’s terror; of Icarus’ sweetness, his fidelity to his father, and his betrayal of Pythagoras’ trust; of the love between them all, their pride in their cause and the burden they took on for Jason, so that blood would not spill its own kind. He tells of their execution of Pasiphae and her unforeseen resurrection; of her return to the city, and her violent, blasphemous coup in the temple of Poseidon. He speaks until his mouth is dry, and his throat is hoarse, and there are no more words, only the unsung future that stretches out before him, a little darker now that he must leave Hades empty-handed.

“Not empty-handed,” Melitodes says, holding out the asphodel to Pythagoras on the bank of the Styx. “This is for you.”

“I— thank you,” says Pythagoras, non-plussed, reaching for the sheaf. It is bundled in the same coarse fabric as Melitodes’ robes, blue like the Minoan standard. “I will remember you kindly.”

Melitodes laughs, takes a step back as Charon approaches. “Oh, sweet boy, carry your death with you lightly; cradle it close like a babe. It is not your shadow; it is our promise to you. But it cannot be delivered now. You have time yet, to live, and to fight. There is time yet.” Her voice is mellow, sweet like honey, not shrill and sharp as before. Pythagoras clambers once more into the ferryman’s boat. He nearly stumbles, trying to find his seat whist wanting to speak to Melitodes once more, and he grasps at the asphodel, understanding it to be some good tiding, but not of what.

When he looks back towards the shore, Melitodes has pulled another pomegranate from her pocket, and is cutting into the flesh with her fingers. As he watches, her hands lengthen, and he looks up, surprised, as she ages before him. Her hair lengthens, and her cheeks pull back; her garments soften and darken, rolling down to the earth, and her skin grows pale and clear. He clings tightly to the asphodel, uncertain what magic has befallen him, until all at once it becomes apparent, and he catches his breath, heart a wild drum in his chest as he remembers lately to bow his head in obeisance. He scrambles, then, hands shaking, to make some offering, give some thanks, and finds he has only the water around his neck - water from the land of the living. He opens the skin, and pours liberally into the Styx, half-fearful, half filled with wonder. “My thanks to you, dread lady,” he calls, toasting the empty skin to his head, and then the air. “My thanks to you, Iron Queen.”

“Thank you for your gift, Pythagoras of Samos,” says Persephone in all her dark, dread glory, her hands red with the flesh of her fruit. The honey timbre of her voice is light with laughter, but rings heavily with power brought to her by the blessed-burden of her reign. She does not raise her voice, but speaks directly into his ear, as though they were yet shoulder-to-shoulder on the shore. “I am well-fed on your words, humble child, and moved by your plight, I offer my own in return. Hear me, Pythagoras,” she instructs, scooping her fingers into the sticky seeds of the pomegranate: “asphodels are the mark of the dead, it is true. But their true talent, oh. Their true talent is a guard — _against sorcery_.” Pythagoras squints into the inky black, no longer able to see the goddess on the river’s sodden banks. When the words permeate, his heart stutters, then races again, and he looks down at the sheaf of flowers in his arms.

The journey back to the world is as silent as the one he took to the domain of the dead, but now, instead of fear, his limbs are light with trepidatious hope. Some unforeseen blessing has befallen him, and though he doesn’t understand it, he is grateful all the way down to his bones.

  


**v. the cure**

When he disembarks upon the eastern shore, Hercules is nowhere to be seen. The remains of their offerings to the gods are still on the river’s bank; the ram’s hide is rain-soaked but otherwise untouched. Pythagoras hitches the asphodel closer to his chest, unwilling to be parted with it for even a moment; the empty skin hangs useless about his neck, and he realises that he is hungry and thirsty, and that the light of a new day dawns in the distant east.

He calls out for Hercules, and though he has spent long hours speaking, he feels as though he has not spoken in days, his voice rough with disuse. He clears his throat and calls again. “Hercules! Hercules, I’m returned!”

There is a sudden bustle of movement in the copse, the forest shaking, then Hercules emerges, great bull of a man. “Pythagoras!” He rushes forward to sweep his friend up, lifting him clean off the ground. “You’re alive! Ha, I knew it, I knew you’d return. Too skinny for the dead, probably, no meat on your bones. What is that?” he asks, peering at the Pythagoras’ precious load. “Flowers? Why on earth would you go all that way for flowers?”

“No, my friend,” says Pythagoras with a smile, “these aren’t just flowers. They’re a gift from the gods. These are our salvation.”

  


They begin the walk back immediately, Hercules handing over a skin of water, and the fruits he had collected from the forest. “No meat,” he grouses. “Too dark to hunt.” He lets Pythagoras quench his thirst before demanding his story. As they move further east, the sun comes upon them, the detail of what Pythagoras had seen in Hades taking them well into the morning. “That is quite some song they’ll sing one day,” says Hercules, clasping a hand on Pythagoras’ shoulder. “A tale for the aeons.”

“If we can get back to Jason in time,” Pythagoras says. “How long was I gone?”

Time at the Styx passed in its own way, but Hercules is certain it has only been one night. “Would’ve seen dawn pass in the distance otherwise, and the meat we had was warming. After you left with that mangy fellow, there wasn’t much to do. I slept a while. Went for a bit of a walk into the forest but I was worried I’d get lost.” He paused. “I didn’t see any more hoof prints, not fresh ones anyway.”

“You caught the ram,” says Pythagoras, “surely that explains it?”

“Hmm. Unusual though,” Hercules muses. “You don’t normally get them outside a flock.”

Pythagoras thinks of their fortune at finding the rabbits, and later the ram; that the hunt been of relative ease, even with the beast so unwieldy - how thick and clean its hide, and how rich with blood it had been. He wonders if some other force has been at work. He hitches the asphodel close again, and follows after Hercules, for once silent in deep thought.

“I was very lucky,” Pythagoras says at last, breaking the quiet. “I was guided by friends the entire time I was there, even if I didn't know they were friends.” He looks over at Hercules, thinks affectionately of his foibles and the goodness of his heart; how he pretends to be disaffected, but always balks at the suggestion that Jason or Pythagoras try any venture without his help. Pythagoras has already shared the news of Daedalus’ final fate, but skipped over other specifics - the confrontation with his father was not one he wished to recount any time soon.

“You should know,” he says, then pauses, wondering how best to deliver what he has to say. “Hercules—” he reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, bringing them briefly to a halt. “When I was in the Underworld, I saw unusual things, but also people. The dead mill about in their afterlives, quietly. Peacefully.” He looks away, rousing courage, before turning back to Hercules. “Medusa is in fine spirits,” he says, aiming for light cheer, and watching as Hercules good mood settles into something heavier, more sombre. “She looks much the way she did when we were first in Atlantis - happy in her being, and unburdened. In exchange for the sacrifice of her life, the goddesses blessed her. Made her whole and wiped her sins from her soul.” He squeezes Hercules shoulder. “I know that you miss her, even now. But let my news bring you comfort: Medusa has found peace, and says you mustn't grieve her, because it sorrows her, and because she wishes you only happiness.”

Hercules turns to face the shoreline, the grief in him no longer so sharp, but still a constant presence. He battles some quiet storm in his breast, his eyes unseeing, and lost in memory. Then he breathes deep, takes the sea air into his lungs, and nods, as though coming to a decision. “Thank you, Pythagoras,” he says, his voice low with feeling. He turns slowly to continue on their way. “Thank you for telling me this.”

  


Pythagoras feels weary to his bone as the sun reaches its zenith. He and Hercules passed the journey in companionable quiet, swapping water skins, and pausing only briefly to catch their breath. After the day had fully risen, they recalled the urgency of their quest, and toiled doubly to return to their friends and the Argo. The further east they walk, the higher the sun climbs, and the richer the world becomes, now solid and dependable beneath their feet.

He had not noticed the land falling away on their journey west, but now they begin to climb a gentle incline which leads unerringly into the clear blue sky. Hercules reaches the bank first and breaks into a genuine smile. “We made it! And the Argo is still in the bay.”

Pythagoras comes to stand at his shoulder and looks out across the shoreline. The sea is a bright jewel, and as the bay curves in, there he can see the Argo. There are small boats to the aft; Jason and the crew hard at work repairing the damage inflicted during the storm. It has only been a few days since they were amidst the punishing waves, but it feels like a lifetime. Hades has left some mark on him. He feels as though he is waking from a long sleep, but also that he has been awake for many days without rest.

Up on the coast there is a spot of bright cerulean - Ariadne, Pythagoras thinks, and some paces away, the Oracle.

“Come,” says Pythagoras. “Our friends are waiting.”

  


It is Ariadne, eagle-eyed and cautious of outsiders, who sees them first. She squints into the bright sky at movement in her periphery, then hurries to her feet, taking up her skirts in one hand to clamber forward and take a better look. Pythagoras sees the exact moment she recognises them, and she turns to call to the ship’s crew at the water’s edge. “Call Jason; they have returned!” She skips onto the sand from the rocks where she was seated, and heads towards them. “Go! Someone bring Jason back to the shore,” she instructs, before hurrying towards Hercules and Pythagoras.

She comes to a breathless halt when she is no more than five paces away, her eyes casting about their faces for any clue of the outcome. “Thank the gods you are returned to us. We thought we would have to live without you.”

“It’s only been a night,” says Hercules with some confusion.

“No,” says Ariadne, face drawn with relief and slow-dispersing sorrow. “No, my friends. It has been four days.” She reaches a hand out to them, but stops shy of touching them, as though compelled to verify their presence. “I thought—” She shakes her head, looks away with a huff of laughter, before smiling at them both. “We thought we would never see you again. The crew were urging a return to the sea.”

She turns back, then, to look out to the Argo. One of the smaller boats is making its way back to shore - Jason, in all likelihood. Now that Pythagoras has the chance to look properly, he sees that the Queen is holding herself tightly, that she is fraught with tension. He wonders what troubles have come to pass in their absence.

“Has Pasiphae struck again?” he asks.

“No,” she answers, turning back to them, “and those that took sick are healing now that we have clean water and fresh food. The king of this land is Cyzicus, and he has made us his welcome guests. He has offered ship workers to aid in the repairs to the Argo, and has replenished our supplies.” She pauses, then adds, “We have been most fortunate, but Jason is eager to take to sea, and I do not know that we will fare so well once we leave the land.”

“In that, your highness,” says Hercules, “we bear the best of news.”

She looks at him, bright with hope, her eyes flickering to the asphodels in Pythagoras’ arms. She reaches out to press a hand to his, her resolve strengthening. “Come, Jason will be eager to see you. You must tell us what you have seen.”

  


“You made it!” Jason cries, jumping from the boat in the shallows, and dragging it to shore behind him. He lets it idle when he is far up the bank and clasps Hercules gladly about the shoulders, shaking him with fierce happiness. He brings Pythagoras into a loose embrace, an arm about his back, looking curiously upon the flowers he cradles. “I knew you would. What happened?” he asks, turning to stride away from the water, up to the rocks where the Oracle is sitting. “What took you so long?”

“An odd place, the end of the world,” says Hercules, in pursuit. “Get me some wine, and I’ll tell you.”

Pythagoras laughs lightly, sharing a glance with Ariadne, and they follow the men up the beach.

  


The Oracle rises to her feet on seeing Pythagoras. Her lips part in surprise on seeing the still-fresh blooms in his arms, and she casts her eyes up to meet his. A moment of unmitigated understanding passes between them. Pythagoras is certain that the Oracle knows the worth of what he holds.

“Praise the gods,” she hushes, “we have been blessed.” She extends her arms to him, an offer to relinquish him of his load, but Pythagoras is unwilling to hand over the prize just yet. He is not selfish, but the gift was given to him, and he feels a heavy onus to keep guard over it.

The Oracle understands, though is mildly affronted. “Who?” she asks, timidly, though already certain of his reply.

“Persephone herself,” Pythagoras replies. He hears Ariadne gasp, and turns to explain to her and Jason both. “The journey was stretched over one evening, one night, and one day, but at the edge of the world, time is not what it seems. It's some fluid thing, ebbing and flowing like the high tides.” He looks to Jason. “I was granted passage to Hades, where I learned many things, and in return was gifted these—” he lifts up the sheaf; “—by the dread Iron Queen.” Pythagoras proffers the flowers to Jason, who takes them with caution, before turning to the Oracle again. “You were right. It will take a totem from the land of the dead to guard against Pasiphae’s furious rage. She is touched by the gods, and now, so are we all.”

“These flowers will help?” Jason asks.

“They are asphodels,” says the Oracle, “fruit of the meadows in Hades, brought there as a gift to his wife, who loves them so.” She reaches out and plucks one stem from the bouquet, holding it aloft so that the sun shines through its pale, luminescent petals. “It is said that they can guard against sorcery.” She looks at Jason. “Now is the time to set forth for Colchis once more. Asphodels will not make us impervious to Pasiphae’s power, or to the dark magic in that distant land, but it will guard us from ill intent, and ease our journey on the water.” She reaches again for the blooms, and Jason renounces them to her care. “I will begin my work.”

“Have you other news?” Jason asks.

“So much,” says Pythagoras, his laugh wry. He thinks briefly of Daedalus, and of Icarus still sequestered in Atlantis. “I could do with that wine, actually.”

“We’ll need it,” says Hercules.

“Yes,” says Jason, slowly. “I think we will.”

  


The Atlanteans break bread whilst the Oracle begins to split the stems into piles. Jason recounts his meeting with King Cyzicus; reiterates his warm welcome, though Jason has been careful not to share the full account of their troubles with him. “I told him we were beset by a storm, and by sickness, and he offered his assistance.” Those who took ill aboard the Argo are near well. Some have chosen to take their leave of the expedition, and Jason is aware that he does not have the crew’s faith. “But this will change,” he assures, “because of your success.”

“Not mine,” says Hercules, bringing the wine to his lips. “It was all Pythagoras’ doing.”

“We didn’t have fare enough for both of us,” says Pythagoras, “but we only realised after I had boarded the boat.”

Jason looks sharply to the Oracle. “Two pieces of silver, you said.”

The Oracle looks up from her task; if she hears the accusation in Jason’s words, she bears it no mind. “That is correct. Two pieces of silver - to ferry one soul.” She casts a knowing eye on Pythagoras. “That is the contract. You cannot forfeit.”

  


The remainder of the day is set aside for work. King Cyzicus’ men work alongside the Argonauts to strengthen the Argo’s hull, whilst Jason treks back into the city with Hercules to offer up his gratitude and confirm their intentions to set sail at first light. Pythagoras sits with the Oracle and Ariadne, helping them to split the stems, and gathering them together in small posies with sprigs of fennel and parsley, wrapped in bay leaves from a laurel tree.

“Fennel,” the Oracle explains, “wards off ill-intent, and parsley is sacred to Persephone, so to thread it with asphodel is to bring like to like.” She shows them how to wrap the bay leaves around the stems, and secure the amulets with twine. “Bay leaves are used by the Oracle of Delphi to purify the Sight. We must secure each totem in one leaf, to enhance the potency of its influence.” She sits back on her haunches. “When we are done, I will offer a prayer to Poseidon for his protection under the light of the sun, and obeisance to Persephone in thanks for her gift to us.”

The three of them work in quiet companionship, Ariadne casting the occasional glance in Pythagoras’ direction. The few times their eyes meet, she smiles, then looks away. He thinks she wants to ask after what else he saw in Hades, but she seems wary of enquiring, and the work is oddly satisfying, so he allows her to bide her time. He already attempted to return her daggers, but Ariadne pressed them back into his hands, an eyebrow arched against any argument.

The Oracle, too, is biding her time, but her gaze is direct. Pythagoras shies from it, thinking of her deception over the silver coins, but aware that it was her divine knowledge that led them to Hades in the first place. What had she to gain by misleading them so? He does not think it an act of ill will, but the deception rankles him. He gently fingers a petal on an asphodel’s stem, wondering again at his fortune.

At length, Ariadne rises to meet Jason on his return from the city, and she follows him to the water’s edge where Hercules is pushing the small boat back into the tide, before clambering on board. The boat rocks precariously for a moment; Hercules’ eyes flash widely, before he regains equilibrium. He feigns a smile for Jason who is watching with no small amount of humour, glancing back at Ariadne to share his mirth.

“The bonds between you are strong,” says the Oracle, gathering herbs and stems from the pile on Ariadne’s side. “You have weathered much adversity. Your friendship - your love of another - is baptised in blood.”

Surprised, Pythagoras turns to look at the Oracle. She smiles at him without rancour, and for a moment he catches sight of the young girl that she is beneath her almighty burden.

“We've seen some trying times together,” Pythagoras agrees. He looks back at the petals beneath his hands. “I only hope our efforts are rewarded. Our intentions are true and firm.” He straightens, then, returning to the work. “May the gods look favourably on our toils.”

“But they do.”

The Oracle watches him with care, surprised at this hesitation in his faith.

“How came you to feel so adrift, Pythagoras? Persephone herself has blessed you with her protection.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “It had to be you, on this journey. No other soul could pass both ways.”

It is only a confirmation of what Pythagoras already knew, but it startles him nonetheless to hear the Oracle confess to her ministrations. If she is ashamed, Pythagoras can see no evidence of it on her face, only quiet delight and bright interest.

“Don’t you see, Pythagoras? It is the kindness in you that has earned us our respite in this ongoing war against Pasiphae’s tyranny.” At his muted disagreement, she interjects: “What was the price asked of you?”

“I don’t know,” Pythagoras insists, casting his eyes about to be sure they are not overheard. Ariadne is still at the water’s edge; Jason and Hercules are rowing out to the Argo. “I went in search of a remedy, and instead I found… the dead. Medusa, Daedalus— my father, and all his rage.” He looks up, the full weight of his growing incertitude coming to bear on his shoulders. “Those I encountered told me what fates had befallen them in that dark place, and I wandered among them, sometimes cheered, sometimes pained.

“When I left, I was full with conviction that we must persevere, and we must triumph against Pasiphae, but I had nothing. I gave water,” he scoffs, “in obeisance. Water! To the divine Queen of the Underworld.” He bites his lip, shaking his head. “I can't fathom it. Daedalus and Melitodes - the child Persephone - they told me I must offer up in kind. But I carried nothing of value with me across the Styx.”

“Poor boy,” the Oracle soothes, “what a trial you have undertaken, burdened by lack of sight. The trade was successful, do you see? Persephone accepted your gift to her and she gave return in kind.” She shifts to take seat beside him, their faces to the tide.

“Do you recall what I told you before you embarked on your quest?”

Pythagoras frowns in concentration, answering slowly as he remembers. “Eat nothing offered, for I am of the living. Take only what I could carry. Offer no promises or insults. Be thankful.”

The Oracle smiles. “I said: be honest, be forthright, be humble.” She reaches for Pythagoras’ hand, stopping short to await his acquiescence. When he nods, she takes his hands, long-fingered and slim, in her own, small, and warm, and soft.

“You had no need to take anything with you, because I knew that the gods looked favourably on your journey. I saw it in the sacrificial pyre before we first set sail for Colchis.” She rubs her thumb over his knuckles, ducking her head to catch his eye. “Did you not think it strange that your course was set by your intention to travel? That your way was clear and easy? What of the meat you feasted on? The wild ram? Your offerings to the gods were rich because they had gifted riches upon you.

“When the child goddess Melitodes asked for your history, you gave it in entirety. You laid claim to the patricide that mars your soul, and to the regicide you believe to be your burden.

“Tell me: when you spoke of your friends, what did you say? Did you praise their good hearts and careful minds? The affection you bear them, you carry with you. Why are you so certain, Pythagoras, that you are not a hero?”

Pythagoras has no answer, nothing that would satisfy the Oracle. He takes his hands from hers; folds them in his lap.

“What you offered the Iron Queen was evidence of your good nature and your kindness.” The Oracle smiles at his demurral. “Think what a world it is, that even in the face of Pasiphae’s violent tyranny, you chose to sought help in the land of the dead, possibly never to return to the living, in hope that you could save your friends - that they could live on to perform brave acts of heroism that you know they are capable of.” She lays her hands open, palms up, in her lap. “What greater sacrifice than to give everything of yourself so that others may triumph?”

“I sent you to meet the Queen of the Underworld, because she had heard your name, and was curious to measure your worth.” She repeats herself: “It had to be you, Pythagoras. No other other soul could be as kind and as giving.” Gathering her skirts, the Oracle makes to stand, collecting together the woven totems. “Persephone offered you like for like: your words in return for hers. Do not be so foolish as to doubt her sincerity.”

She leaves Pythagoras to his thoughts, and he sits with them in the shadow of the cliff face until the sound of the sea lulls him to sleep. He does not dream. He only remembers.

  


Hercules shakes him awake at the evening meal, waving a plate of stew under his nose. “Goat!” he enthuses, dropping the plate in Pythagoras’ lap. “Eat up. Put some meat on your bones. I don’t want you falling overboard. We’d never hear you hit the water.”

Jason passes over a skein of wine to wash down the food; it’s hot and rich with spice. The wine is welcome. “Is everything all right?” Jason asks, attempting to discern Pythagoras’ mood.

“He’s fine,” Hercules interrupts, landing a heavy hand on Pythagoras’ back and shaking him. “Lovelorn, no doubt.”

Pythagoras attempts to shake Hercules off, but to no avail; settles for rolling his eyes and sharing a wry look with Jason. Then he forces himself to be brave. “It's true that I worry about those we left in Atlantis.”

Jason nods, taking up his own stew, watching as Ariadne settles in close. “It's been on my mind as well. If Pasiphae’s power is so violent at such a reach, who knows what damage she is doing in the city.” He takes a bite, and then another of the stew, wondering at the taste before continuing. “We'll set sail for Colchis at first light. From here it should take no more than five days, especially with our added protection.” He lifts and drops the totem he has slung about his neck. Pythagoras looks about; everyone has one.

Ariadne notices his gaze with a smile. “I have yours on my person. Eat first. I have not forgotten you, I promise.”

“Now more than ever I'm resolved to make port at Colchis,” says Jason, he voice clear and strong. Pythagoras can see, even now, the kind of king he will one day make, an almost second sight, inevitable and shining. “We must forge ahead on our task. Every day we tarry is another we leave open to Pasiphae’s tyranny.” He passes he gaze over everyone circled by him. “I would never ask you to give more than you are willing. If you wish to break off and make a home in some other place—”

“Yes, all right,” Hercules interrupts. “You’re still a martyr, we understand. No need to keep on at it. As if we’d leave you to it. You’d end up dead and then what would we have to show for ourselves? Nothing.” He scrapes the last vestiges of meat from his plate. “Now shut up and eat your dinner. You’ll feel better.”

Jason looks set to argue, but Pythagoras speaks up. “We'll follow you wherever you lead, Jason. It isn’t a question that needs to be asked.”

After a beat, Jason nods his thanks; Ariadne squeezes his hand, and inclines her head to his bowl. Eat, is the implication, and Jason takes up his spoon again.

“That’s better,” Hercules booms. “Can’t have another sack of bones round here. Bad enough trying to keep Pythagoras upright.”

“I take offence at that.”

“We’ll have to tie him to the bow if we’re going to keep sight of him.”

“Hercules!”

“Enough,” Jason says, laughing. “Pythagoras is more than capable of keeping himself safe. And,” he muses, focused on his food, “if not, we’ll just tie him to the mast. He might get tossed off the bow.”

Pythagoras splutters indignantly, but when Ariadne smiles at him, he returns in kind. Who says you can’t choose your family, he thinks. I've found mine right here.

  


At first light, under the Oracle’s watchful gaze, they offer up a fattened ewe from King Cyzicus’ stock to Poseidon, in thanks for his care so far, and in supplication for the journey ahead. Pythagoras pours fresh water from the spring at the sea’s edge, and offers up a personal prayer. The totem around his neck smells sweet.

They sail out to the Argo with one of King Cyzicus’ men, and once aboard, the King’s man returns to shore. The crew settle in at the oars, two men to each, and Pythagoras takes his seat next to Hercules. “Useless having you here. I’m going to do all the work anyway.”

“But you’re so good at it, Hercules,” Pythagoras intones flatly as Jason situates himself in front, a crewman at his side. “So strong, so capable. However would we sail without you.”

“We might go faster,” Jason mutters, much to Hercules’ consternation.

“I could row this ship myself—”

“Enough, Hercules.”

In the bow, The Oracle and Ariadne make their seats, Ariadne with her hands in the fishing nets, tightening the knots. She catches Pythagoras’ eye and smiles. The sky is aglow with the blush of dawn; the crew is healthy and hearty; the Argo is ready to set forth with renewed vigour. At Jason’s order, the anchor is raised, and the men begin to row, pulling the ship out of the bay.

With salt in the air, and sweat on his back, Pythagoras pulls steady along with Hercules. As the Argo picks up speed, someone loosens a buntline, and the lesser sail opens with a dull pop, filling with air as it does. The ship pushes east, towards the sun, and Pythagoras is full with purpose. Onwards, then, to Colchis and the golden fleece. Onwards, then, to victory.

 

> _If your sister or your brother_  
>  _were stumbling on their last mile_  
>  _in a self-inflicted exile  
>  _ _we'd wish for them a humble friend_
> 
> _[...]_
> 
> _there's the weak and the strong,_  
>  _and the many stars that guide us;  
>  _ _we have some of them inside us_
> 
> **_— Dar Williams, The Mercy of the Fallen_ **

  


**END**

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title and epigraph are from Dar Williams' song The Mercy of the Fallen which is an obvious choice for any traveller-myth story: "Oh, my fair North star / I have held to you dearly / I had asked you to steer me / til one cloud-scattered night / I got lost in my travels." Perfect, right?
> 
> 2\. The minor character death warning is for Daedalus who is executed by Pasiphae; Pythagoras encounters him in Hades. Originally this was going to be the Oracle, but bearing in mind Pythagoras' affection for Icarus, it made more sense for his first encounter to be Daedalus. 
> 
> 3\. Icarus is in Atlantis because I actually forgot how his story ended in the S2 finale. This fic was originally going to switch between Pythagoras’ journey and Icarus’ travails in Atlantis, but it took away some of the tension, and also was sort of unwieldy. I decided to focus solely on Pythagoras as that fit the prompt better anyway. 
> 
> 4\. The rites are made up. Typically before a journey an offering is made - normally in fire (I'm assuming to prevent flies and decay etc.) - but I don't know the details and did not look them up. The rites Pythagoras and Hercules perform on the shores of the Styx are about intent: flesh and then blood. That was my thinking; I don't know anything about the accuracy of it. I was working on the general idea of what The Oracle (original flavour) performed on the show - markings, incantations, and prayers. Something that takes time and requires humility and care. With that in mind: there is a lot of blood. A ram is hunted, then later (once dead) drained of a large amount of blood and skinned. The carcass is then at the centre of a sacrificial fire. The descriptions are matter-of-fact, not entrenched in detail, but you will want to tread carefully if you are opposed to this.
> 
> 5\. Charon's payment is typically a coin in the mouth of the dead, in bronze or silver. Obviously this didn't work for the plot (the idea is that they thought two coins would cover them both) so I went with two coins: one to cover each eye. It turns out this is something of a fallacy; there's no evidence to suggest people actually did this, despite the fact that it is an enduring image.
> 
> 5\. In the Argonautica, the Argonauts do encounter King Cyzicus. I didn’t follow that particular side story through, but it’s pretty terrible. Though welcomed by the king, the crew is attacked by some hellbeast, and are forced back to sea. They get turned around and end up back on the same shore but now bruised and broken, they’re not recognised, and are thought to be marauders. In the ensuing fight, the king is killed. Both sides only realise the tragedy in the light of dawn. Cheering, isn't it? I didn't include it because it was superfluous, but also because in the stories, Hercules is a fundamental part of the whole ordeal, and I knew I was going to leave him stranded on the banks of the Styx. 
> 
> 6\. In the same way that the show messed around with various Greek myths, I have based Pythagoras’ trek on Odysseus’ same one in the Odyssey. In the Odyssey, Odysseus learns that he has to travel through death in order to continue to life in Ithaca, and on this journey he encounters those he has known through his life. Whilst Pythagoras wasn’t one of the named Argonauts, there are two others who journeyed with Jason that also made trips to Hades. One was Hercules (who was sent to retrieve Theseus from imprisonment as one of his trials), and the other was Orpheus (who went in search of Eurydice). Orpheus’ musical talent was used by the Argonauts to help them survive the sirens. The practice of sending a hero to the Underworld is common, and there is prestige associated with entering and leaving Hades alive. Pythagoras is this story's hero, and as he does not think of himself that way, it was especially important to me that there be some way to mark his heroism.
> 
> 7\. The places named in Hades are the various acknowledged domains, though my composition of them is doubly-fictional, i.e. I made up where the made-up places are in relation to one another. Asphodels are associated with death because of Persephone - who favoured them and was often seen garlanded with them - and because of their deathly pallor. Wikipedia gave me this additional gem: they're supposed to be a "remedy for poisonous snake bites and a specific against sorcery." Amazing! Lastly, Melitodes is one of the euphemistic names for Persephone. I was going to go with Cora, but I didn't want it to be immediately obvious, pomegranates or not.
> 
> 8\. I took Pythagoras' father's name (Mnesarchus) from the wikipedia entry about the actual, real-life Pythagoras.
> 
> Stories about stories. Love them.


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